


The Last Time

by winchestersinthedrift



Series: Het SPN Oneshots [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:05:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You run into Dean Winchester again 16 years after your first encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The First Time. 
> 
> Requests are open at my tumblr @winchestersinthedrift!

He rematerialised in, of all places, a mediocre wrap and salad joint.

You recognised him at once and with an ironclad certainty, in spite of the fact that his hair was darker and he’d lost the oversized leather jacket, too, was dressed in a tailored black suit, white shirt and tie underneath. He looked a little like a lawyer, or a fed from a tv cop show . There were a lot more lines in his face; the crinkles around his eyes were deeper and he had a full face of scruff. But the lips were the same – jesus, those lips – and his posture was as much hellboy swagger as you remembered, wide stance and hips canted forward over bowlegs.

You were sitting at a table in the corner and saw him first, standing in line to order; but a second later he looked up to scan the room (that was the same, too, the constant hyper-awareness of his surroundings) and caught your eye.

The second-strangest thing about the next 30 seconds was that neither of you glanced away. Such an automatic instinct, really, the glance/glance away dance of eye contact with strangers, but somehow Dean didn’t and neither did you.

The thing stranger than _that_ was that he didn’t do either of the things you’d come to expect over years of hookups and their aftermaths. He didn’t look away without recognising you, and he didn’t look away _pretending_ not to have recognised you. There was a couple of seconds where you could see him searching back through the memories of 16 years but then not even a second of hesitation, just

‘Y/N!’ called out loud across the room, astonished but pleased – yes, it was definitely a pleased tone of voice – and he stepped over the rope that hemmed in the line and strode over to you. Fuck – it was the same stride, too, as long-legged and quick as when he’s come across the dining room at Ricky Morrison’s keg party and pushed you up against the wall. You stood up, still uncertain, but he wasn’t – he put a hand low on the small of your back and pulled you right into him, wrapped his arms around you and kept them there for a full beat longer than politeness required.

Then he stepped back, put his hands up in his jacket pockets, just like you remembered – god, you’d studied his little movements so hard that summer, had known all his mannerisms, the difference in how he laughed if it was his father’s joke or his brother’s, the way he pronounced ‘soda’ with a little drawl. He smiled up from under his brows a little, chin tucked down. The gesture was familiar but the smile itself was different, not as cocky, not as wild, the smile of someone who had laughed in the face of fate once too often.

‘God, Dean, it’s been a long time!’ you said, dazedly, and mentally smacked yourself for the cliché, but Dean was looking at you as if you’d said something particularly clever and surprising.

‘ _Fuck_ yeah,’ he said, and shook his head in something like disbelief. You half-mouthed ‘what?’ and he smiled, close-mouthed and bright-eyed, and shook his head again. ‘You look like it’s been five,’ he said, ‘tops. Tops, Y/N. It – well, it takes me back, that’s all.’ You were both quiet for a second and then you impulsively put a hand on his.

‘Do you want to sit? It’d be nice to – er –‘ (what, exactly? catch up? chat? you hadn’t actually done much of _that_ the last time you passed through each others’ lives.)

‘Yeah I do,’ he said, in a way that made you believe him, ‘but my brother – Sam – you remember Sam! – shit it’s, it’s so strange, he hadn’t even –‘ he broke off and seemed to have forgotten you for a second. ‘Lots’s happened,’ he said, not elaborating. ‘Anyway, Sam, he’s waitin’ in the car for his pecan sprouted grass or whatever the fuck they sell in here.’ He cast a glance of derision around the room and tapped a foot on the floor. ‘But, hey –‘

‘Do you wanna…’ you led, cautiously, because you didn’t want to blow it but you also weren’t about to let the best fuck of your life (and sweet and funny and good with his knuckles to boot) just walk right out of it again. ‘I mean, um, later…?‘

‘Yeah,’ he said, at once, ‘listen, can you – uhhh lemme think –‘ he put his head down and dragged a hand down over his face. ‘Roadhouse Steak, at 8? We’re staying near there and I’ve – we’ve got a couple things to do, not sure how long they’ll take.’

‘Yeah,’ you said, and grinned, suddenly giddy. ‘Yeah, that works! I’ll be there.’

He nodded once and smiled again and then he stepped up and honest to god kissed you.

 

—–  
He called your phone an hour and a half later. There was static on the line and you thought you could hear his brother talking in the background.

‘Hey babe, not sure that I feel like steak tonight. How about we call for Chinese or somethin’? There’s a hot tub at the hotel, not too swanky but might be ok, or –‘

‘God, Dean,’ you heard his brother say, ‘it’s probably got at _least_ three different diseases. Could _you_ smell chlorine? Because I sure couldn’t. I really don’t think it’s –‘

‘I’d like that,’ you said, fast, ‘pool or not,’ and you clutched with both hands at the brazenness this man somehow roused in you. ‘Is it, er, a swanky enough place to have a laundry room?’

You heard something that sounded like choking and then his brother’s voice again, raised in the background.

‘What the actual _fuck_ Dean, you just – that was our exit – k well the next one is in 20 clicks so I hope – jesus – what?!!’ Murmured conversation, the sound of scuffling, Dean saying something too low for you to pick up. Then he came back on the phone and cleared his throat.

‘Yeah,’ he said, gravely, ‘oh baby, you fucking betcha. Just come by at 8. Room 311. Yes, Sam, shit, hold on a sec. What? OK. Gotta go sweetheart.’

 

———  
He opened the door on the second knock. The suit jacket was gone, thrown over a couch you could see in the background, but he still wore the black dress pants and a white button-down that fit snug over his shoulders and set off his tan. He must have just got home – his shirttails were hanging out over his belt and he’d unbuttoned the shirt down to the fifth button. You kicked off your shoes and walked right into his arms and without a word he grabbed you and pulled you into a kiss that brooked no hesitation or half-measures – deep and full of tongue and strong. He was like a black hole, sucking you in: in an instant, as soon as his hands were on you, he was all that existed – his smell, the slight starch of his shirt under your hands, the calloused roughness of his own hands up beneath your blouse. You remembered those hands, the thickness of his fingers and their surprising gentleness and dexterity, remembered the feel of them groping up inside you and holding onto your hair while he’d come.

After what could have been 30 seconds or ten minutes he broke away and flashed that familiar smile at you, getting his breath. His hands slipped up under your shirt and squeezed your breasts through your bra.

‘Let’s go get food,’ he said, and redid a button on his shirt. ‘They do takeaway downstairs.’ You stood and gawked at him. Your ponytail had come out and you were pretty sure your lips were already showing some damage.

‘I’m – not that hungry,’ you said, in a bit of a stupor, and he gripped your hand hard and opened the door. ‘Me neither honey, but I wanna show you something. Come ‘ere.’

Down the hall on your bare feet and round a corner to a short hall with only two doors. The first read ‘Janitor’s Closet – Staff Only’. The second one –

‘Oh you _little_ _shit_ ,’ you said, and turned to him with such a wide-eyed grin that he laughed back at your delight. ‘The – you – the fucking _laundry room_?’ Then he had you up against the door, a muscled thigh pressing up between your legs and your bare feet up on top of his. He was running his hands hard down your body, down your torso and slipping round your waist and up again to your throat, just circling and touching and _taking_ you, and it was unraveling you in a way that any single movement couldn’t have, waves of sensation too close together to recover from before they circled round and crashed over you again. His thigh was still up in your crotch but you could feel him hardening against the inside of one of your hips.

‘No quarters,’ he said, ‘for the dryer. Fuckin’ Sam took ‘em all for mint patties. But –‘

He’d been fumbling at the door behind you and now he got it open and you fell through together. He caught himself just in time by the doorknob and jerked you back up. There were two dryers, one with a ‘do NOT USE!!!!!’ sign on it in giant pink comic sans font, and a sad-looking washer against the far wall, rusting away along its seams.

‘No laundry on the floor this time,’ you said, grinning at him, still giddy that this was happening, and he grinned back and started unbuttoning his shirt again.

‘Nope, but we can do somethin’ about that.’

Both his shirts came off, fast, and you went for the buckle of his belt but he shook his head and grabbed you again and pushed you back against the wall. He was thicker now than 16 years ago, not flabby or even just solid but a core of straight-up muscle, shoulders still so broad that fresh heat fluttered low in your stomach. He had scars all across one side of his torso, a patch of raised white welts, and when he’d peeled off his shirt you’d seen that his underarm hair was darker and thicker than it’d been before and that one of his shoulder joints rolled a little stiffly. His chest was almost hairless and rippled a little as he manoeuvred you against the wall and reached down between you to push down your skirt and panties, just to your knees, so that you couldn’t fully spread them apart. Then he pushed himself right between your legs, squirming a little to get as close as possible. His hips pressed up against the insides of your thighs and his crotch was right up against your bare pussy, the outline of his cock pushing into your lips and nudging against your clit. The friction of his weight made you gasp and instinctively push down against him but you were virtually immobilised, pinned to the wall. The easy grin had faded from his face and been replaced by a slack-jawed hunger.

‘Y/N,’ he said, and you realised belatedly, in an instant, the biggest change of all since the last time he’d been between your legs: his voice had dropped a full register. Even back at the diner it had been lower than you’d ever heard it before. Now, with his hips pressing you against the wall and his hand stroking your hair around your ear, it was positively gravelly and came from somewhere deep in his chest. ‘Y/N – _fuck_ , you’re beautiful – do you remember, uh, do you remember much about last time?’

You pulled back from kissing him and stared.

‘Dean,’ you said, faintly, because he was thrusting against you a little and god, you were going to ruin his pair of pants, ‘Dean, I remember _everything_ about last time.’

He made a little noise, diffident and low, but his face softened a little and you could tell that he was pleased.

‘Do you remember when you came? The—‘ this time he really was pleased – ‘the second time?’

It seemed ridiculous to be shy of someone when their cock was rubbing up against you and they were kissing along the side of your neck, but you were, and fuck if you didn’t actually blush.

‘I – uh, I was – you were – I was on your face and it was – it didn’t take long.’

‘Four breaths,’ Dean said, chest beginning to heave a little against you, and you were flooded with a strange emotion – that he had remembered this, noticed it at all, yes, but even more that he had measured it not in seconds but in the breaths you were taking above him, the movements of your body joined with his. ‘It took you four breaths Y/N. How many y’think it’ll take tonight?’

He was looking at you so intensely you felt you might shatter under his gaze. This was something new, the unrelenting eye contact, the way you felt so vulnerably the object of his total and explicit focus. Not that he’d been oblivious, last time, but his eagerness and need, and yours, had set the pace. Today you felt like his goal was not so much to get off, even to get you off, but to take you apart at the seams; as if he were taking his time not from any lack of need but because what he needed had shifted, ripened in the years since you’d had him last.

He started unbuckling his pants, not breaking off looking at you, and ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. It was that, the bump of his tongue running across his stubble, that first made you shudder under him. He slipped one hand down between your legs and you felt the familiar thick fingers probe into you, slip the tips of two inside, not far, just to the first knuckle, just enough to make you gasp and try to clench around him. He made a noise in his throat but still didn’t smile, still looked at you with that deep raw hunger. You were wet and slick, swollen with arousal, and he could tell.

‘Babe,’ he said, very soft, ‘yeah baby, that’s what I like to feel.’

Pants and boxer briefs came off together (not commando anymore, a corner of your mind noticed) and he waited, breathing heavily now, let you take his dick in your hand and thumb the head while he kissed you again, open-mouthed and hungry. His cock was thick and laced with veins, more than you remembered though you hadn’t had as good a look last time, and it twitched against your hand, already stiff. When you brushed your thumb across the slit, leaking precum down his shaft, he groaned in his throat and you felt it in your lips and tongue and neck and you put your forehead against his, dazed and impatient.

‘Dean,’ you said, ‘you fucker, c’mon, gonna wait all day?’

He grunted and ran the whole of one palm up against your pussy to coat it with slick, palmed that hand around his cock and shifted up against you. Then his lips were on your mouth again, stubble scratching rough against your lips and chin, and he licked softly into your mouth as he pushed himself slowly inside you, bottoming out on the first thrust and holding himself there. You could feel his thick thighs trembling against you. He began moving almost imperceptibly, really just a slight rolling against you so that his pelvis ground up against yours and you could feel the constant pressure of his cock inside you.

‘Oh. _Oh_ , Y/N,’ he said, not groaning yet, but in a guttural tone and with frequent breaths, ‘oh sweetheart, baby you feel – _so_ good – I –‘ he broke off and looked down, hair raked up messily and lips wet and bruised a little. ‘I’m a lucky son of a bitch to – to see you again.’ He let out a breath and his eyes were almost full-blown black and serious. ‘To have you twice.’ You gave a little self-deprecating smile but he took your face in one hand and set his jaw firm. ‘I mean it,’ he said, ‘fucking lucky. You’re beautiful, Y/N.’ His hands trailed up to the back of your neck while he planted messy sucking kisses from your shoulder along your collarbone. His mouth hovered over your ear and he whispered, ‘now come apart for me.’

You cried out, soft but visceral, and tipped your head back against the wall. He kept kissing down around your jaw, licking softly into your mouth. One hand slid down your arm and took your fingers, traced the length of them with his; the other cupped your ass and pulled you even more firmly against him, all wet stretched flesh where you joined each other. You moaned and squeezed around him and he gasped a little into your mouth.

Even once he started thrusting he took his time, dragging his cock slowly, slowly out of you so that you felt every inch of friction, pausing just before he slipped out, a breath, his hands tight against your ass, him pushing back in wet and heavy and hard. Your skin was almost effervescent now, warm and tingling, and the knot of aching pleasure that had built up in your core was beginning to unfurl itself, twisting with the rhythm of his movements. You brought your hands up to his neck, ran a thumb along the underside of his jaw, and you could tell he liked it: his head tipped back just a bit, baring his throat, and his tongue licked between his teeth behind slightly parted lips. You leaned in to kiss his neck but he thrust back up into you and a current of pleasure bolted through you, curling your spine and throwing your head back against the wall.

‘K baby,’ he said, struggling (you thought) not for breath but to compose his voice, ‘here we go. How many?’

You were still trying to pull yourself together through the sensation of his cock dragging slowly back out of you.

‘T-ten,’ you said, dazedly, ‘baby oh god oh dean jesus _christ_.’

‘Breathe with me , Y/N,’ he said, ‘Y/N baby, you’re so – fuck, oh god –‘ he shuddered, closed eyes for a minute. He was still leaning into you between each thrust. ‘Ready baby here we go. One.’

By the time he got to three your thighs had started trembling around his; by five your hips were jerking desperately against him and your eyes had rolled back into your head. On seven you stopped moving completely, your whole body seized up around him, hardly breathing at all, and he brushed a scruffy cheek against yours and said, ‘oh god – Y/N – please – let me see you come – please come baby.’ Half a breath later you did, arching so hard away from the wall that he staggered a little to catch his footing, and writhing against him through a long shuddering aftermath.

‘You didn’t –‘ you said, when you could talk again. He put you down and you lurched a little, not quite able to stand yet.

‘Not done yet, babe,’ he said, and glanced up at you with a glint in his eye while he stooped to grab his shirt off the floor, ‘but we gotta haul ass. Happen to know this room gets locked up in 15.’

 

———

Back inside the motel room you would have headed for the bed, but Dean held on to your wrist and pulled you in close. He kissed you again, open-mouthed and deepening, lips so soft and full that they seemed to melt against you. When you broke off to breathe he licked his lips and set them suddenly together, deep dimples flickering at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flashed, eager and a little predatory.

‘Can’t stop wonderin’,’ he said, ‘if you still taste the same.’ He had his back to the little formica table beside the door and now he took a step back, kicked a chair away from the end closest to you and shoved the papers that covered it onto the floor. The ceiling fan caught them and they fluttered all over the room. Dean threw you a sideways glance of amusement and gave a tiny shrug and you gasped in laughter.

‘What’s Sam gonna say?’

‘Sam,’ he grunted, grabbing you again and shoving you flat on your back on the table, ‘can fuckin’ _deal_.’ He took hold of your hips – fuck, you could get used to those hands on you – and pulled them to the edge of the table. Then he ran his palms up the inside of your thighs, pushed your legs apart and hovered over you for a moment, looking down into your face.

‘How you doin’ babe?’

‘Oh my god,’ you gasped, and grabbed his face and kissed him again because the more his lips were on you the more you wanted them, ‘you fucking tease!’ He grinned, a face-cracking smile that pulled a line of wrinkles up the side of his jaw, and winked. You heard him slide to the floor and crack his neck (why the _fuck_ was that so hot?) and he shifted you a little further over the edge of the table. Then he gripped your thighs hard and ate you out one shuddering second at a time.

The phrase had never been so fitting, not with any of the other men who’d gone down on you and not with Dean himself sixteen years before. Back then he’d been quick, hot, desperate. This Dean, older, more calloused, more experienced, licking you open with a dark-stubbled jaw and wrinkles round his eyes when he glanced up at you – this Dean devoured you as if your taste and smell fed something primitive and needy inside him. He moaned around your clit, breathed heavy and hot over your inner lips and traced their outline with his tongue. You rolled your hips a little, bucked them up against him, but he held your thighs down and growled at you, low and feral, eyes flicking up to your face. You cried out then, fell into a string of little panting cries and fought against him for more contact, but he held you down hard and you swore that you could feel him smiling against you. You were so wet you were sure it would have been dripping on the table except for Dean’s mouth on you, sucking and running over your pussy with the whole length of his tongue. The man went down like he kissed: open-mouthed and tender and hyper-alert to the little sounds and responses of your body.

‘Please,’ you managed to struggle out, finally, still panting, ‘goddammit dean, can you – _fuck_ – I need to - come - baby.’

He got up on his feet but stayed bent down over you, one eyebrow cocked and that smile playing again around his lips. He rubbed the palm of one hand over his face and wiped it on his pants and _fuck_ he was hot, face flushed a little and shiny with your slick. His hair was tousled and stood straight up where you’d pulled it. He put out a hand and pulled you up to sit on the edge of the table. You grabbed at his pants and he shucked them off again, quicker this time, and you made a noise in your throat because jesus _christ_ his cock was jerking a little and streaked all down its length with precum. You ran your fingers over it and he let his breath out slow and loud through his teeth. Shit, his self-possession was unbelievable – he was clenching and unclenching both his fists, breathing heavily, but otherwise still in control of himself.

‘Over,’ he said tightly, ‘yeah?’ and you didn’t reply, just bent over the table, put both palms down flat and arched your back up towards him. He grabbed under your hips and you sank down to your elbows and then flat, nipples hardening against the cold formica, and held onto the edge of the table on either side. You were on tiptoe, Dean’s hips up against yours and his hands holding them up at an almost impossible angle. No preliminaries, this time: one hand to guide his dick, a finger flicking up to brush your clit and then he was pounding hard, one hand balancing your hips and the other braced against the table. You gripped its edges till your fingers went white and pushed back against him, squirmed a little to shift the angle of his thrusts. When his cock started to hit your g-spot you gasped, hard, and involuntarily rose up on your hands. You were hardly aware anymore of what your body was doing, only that under this relentless gentle battering you were disintegrating fast around him, taken apart to a level of basic sensation. When you came, keening and shaking underneath him, he flipped you over and pushed back into you and you could see the muscles rippling across his chest, the way his lower lip was caught hard between his teeth. You wrapped your legs around him and your arms around his shoulders, pressed yourself against and around him, squeezed as hard as you could and he broke against you, gasping and shuddering, and when you sank back against the table he followed you down and pressed his head into the hollow of your shoulder. And for a little while he left it there while you ran your fingers through his hair, and ached for time to stop.

 

———-  
Afterwards you both collapsed onto the bed with its sickly-purple floral bedspread and assemblage of stiff hotel pillows.

‘Sam’ll be out for a bit yet,’ he said, ‘come ‘ere, sweetheart.’ You rolled over into him and he tucked you in close to his chest and bit gently down the length of your shoulder. You took a deep breath and let it out slowly. You wanted to cling to him tight, ask him when he’d be in town next and what did he do for a living anyway and why were there four boxes of salt on the table next to the tv and how had he got those scars on his ribs? You wanted to crawl inside his life and pull him down on top of you and fall in love with him. But you sensed, again, as you had last time, that what he needed most was for you to make it easy for him to go, to send him into that unknown life warmer for having had tonight, not stung by its loss. So fuck it, that’s what you were going to do. Just laughter and a warm body for tonight and a heart that would miss him when he left.

You rolled away a bit so you could look up in his face and he dipped his head again and kissed you on the lips, soft and wet, and your whole body trembled. This wasn’t going to be easy.

‘So,’ you said, ‘Chinese food?’


End file.
